


Stacked Deck

by DHW



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Bondage, Dom!Jadzia Dax, Dom/sub, Exhibitionism, Garak and Julian bang, Jadzia tells them how, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Voyeurism, Xeno, sub!Elim Garak, sub!Julian Bashir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:09:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24826594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DHW/pseuds/DHW
Summary: They really should know better than to play poker with Jadzia. She doesn't bet with latinum. Nor does she like to lose.This time, however, everyone ends up a winner.One way or another.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak, Julian Bashir/Jadzia Dax/Elim Garak
Comments: 21
Kudos: 106
Collections: Deep Space Niners Kink Swap 2020





	Stacked Deck

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LibraryZ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LibraryZ/gifts).



  
  
“Let’s begin, shall we, boys?” Jadzia said, settling back into her chair. 

It was late. Quark’s was empty, the bell that signalled last orders having long since tolled. All was quiet, the only life that of those unlucky enough to be assigned to the night shift. 

Holosuite three, however, was still running. Lights flickered on the control panel, the hardlight generators humming softly as the programme continued to loop. Another Bond-based escapade, or so the scrolling text of the welcome screen by the door suggested. One involving implausible weapons, scantily clad women, and a plot so thin it was practically transparent.

The usual story. Or so it appeared.

Inside holosuite three, a different narrative was beginning to play out. 

They were in London, or a close enough approximation. 

It was night here, too. The moon was full; rising slowly from behind drifting wisps of rain clouds, its silvery light mingled with that of the city’s streetlamps, illuminating a single strip across the centre of the room. Casting the rest of it into deep shadow.

It was in this shadow that Jadzia sat.

Watched.

Assessed.

Glass in hand, the jacket of her uniform draped casually across the arm of her chair, she took in the scene before her. The way the light fell upon the room. How all else seemed to have faded into nothingness, herself included, that which lurked in the darkness suddenly little more than a suggestion. Indistinct and unimportant. 

There was only the light, and that which it illuminated. The rug, sheepskin; the sofa behind it, the worn leather grey in the moonlight; the cards scattered on the low coffee table, Jadzia’s winning hand exposed for all to see. In this particular case, the station’s good doctor and its distinctly less good tailor, their shadows stretching out behind them. 

“Jadzia…” 

She felt a frisson of electricity crackle across her skin. 

“No talking, Julian,” she said softly. “That goes for you too, Garak. I don’t want to hear a word.”

A pause. Brief. Meaningful.

Tension crackled in the air. The calm before the storm. Thick and heavy, it had settled upon the room, silencing all but the sounds of their laboured breathing, until...

“Not even ones of encouragement?” the Cardassian said, voice low, perhaps a little dangerous. “Or perhaps pleasure?”

“Not a word.” She took a sip from her glass, delighting in the way the liquid burned down the back of her throat. “I won the game; I make the rules.”

Garak’s eyes flashed. He nodded in acquiescence, the gesture deferential, a small smile curling at the edges of his lips.

The room was hot. Hotter than it had any real right to be, given their fictional location. Sweat had begun to bead at the small of Jadzia’s spine. The tumbler she held was blissfully cool between her fingertips, and she pressed it to the hollow of her throat, concentrating on the feel of chilled glass upon her skin. 

She shifted in her seat. 

“Stand up,” Jadzia said. “Let me look at you.”

The floorboards creaked beneath them as they moved, stepping further into the light. 

They were perfect, the pair of them. Julian with his long, graceful limbs, all smiles and enthusiasm. Garak, sturdier, stockier, clad in fine-spun cloth that gave hints, suggestions, of the shape of the body beneath.

She watched as Julian began redden, a bright flush beginning to creep across his eviably high cheekbones. A hand, the fingers long and elegant, drifted up towards the back of his neck to tease at the skin—a nervous habit—the action resulting in a sharp inhalation from Garak. 

One from Jadzia, too. 

Though the neck held no significant importance in Trill sexual practice, the effect of the gesture—so unwittingly made—upon the Cardassian beside him sent a sharp thrill through her. The unmistakable look of hunger he cast in the doctor’s direction made her shiver. Made the muscles of her stomach, her thighs, begin to tighten in anticipation. 

It was fleeting, the look upon Garak’s reptilian features. A blink and it had vanished, replaced with his usual, amicable mask. But the _want_ was still there beneath it. Jadzia could see it in the line of his shoulders, the way the tendons corded across the backs of his hands. Hear it in each soft, shaky exhalation he no doubt thought too quiet for them to hear. 

They had barely begun and already this dance had gone on too long. 

“Julian, do you see the rope on the table?” she said, watching as the doctor turned to look. “I'd like you to bind Garak’s hands with it.”

Slowly, Julian followed her instructions. The soft rustle of fabric filled the air, followed by the sound of footsteps upon the floorboards. Fingers grasped the rope—Vulcan silk—lifting it from its place upon the glass with a whisper. 

“Tie them behind his back.” A pause. “Tightly.”

The air was sweet with the smell of simulated blossom. The scent of an English summer mingling with the spice of the oil Garak used upon his scales, and the hot, musky scent of Julian’s arousal. Distinctive. Human. 

And so unlike her own. 

A wave of heat washed over her, settling low in her belly. It built as she watched Julian work; his movements were quick and efficient, hands sliding down the outside of Garak’s cloth-covered arms, drawing them back, pushing out his chest, trapping his wrists at the base of his spine with a sash of black silk. 

And when it was done, he stepped aside, out of Garak’s shadow and into the moonlight once more, ready for further instruction.

Jadzia’s breath caught at the sight.

Julian stood tall and proud, his hands lying limply, obediently at his side. Garak beside him, head tilted back, blue eyes closed as he took another deep, shaking breath.

Jadzia watched as the ends of his hair brushed against the ridges of his shoulders with each exhale.

She wanted to reach out and thread her fingers through the strands. Feel the silk of it against her skin. Perhaps even tug lightly upon it, make the arrogant Cardassian gasp. Maybe even groan. Her fingers itched with the desire, but she held back, cognizant of the rules of the game they had instigated. 

She could look, but not touch. 

Her role was to order, to observe. Theirs, to touch one another at her request. Live out her fantasies like puppets on a string. 

It had been Garak’s suggestion. It was hardly his fault that he was a terrible poker player. His penchant for deception, it seemed, did not extend to the card table. He had a distinct tell (a twitch in his index finger)—and even if he hadn’t, well, Jadzia had planned for such an eventuality. Stacked the deck in her favour. Rigged the game. After all, the chance to have her fantasies played out before her held a significant appeal - as did the pair that stood, tense and excited, in the centre of the room. 

“Garak’s tunic,” she said, taking a long, steadying draught from her glass. “Rip it open.” 

Garak’s eyes went wide. He opened his mouth as if to protest, but Jadzia interrupted. 

“What did I say about talking, Garak?” She turned to Julian. “Do it.”

The sound of viciously torn seams filled the air. It was followed by a moan; quite who made it, Jadzia didn’t know. It could have come from any one of them. 

“Pull the fabric back,” she urged. “Show me.”

Long fingers slipped between the torn fabric, pushing each half of Garak’s tunic back as they swept up towards his shoulders, exposing the curves and plains of it to Jadzia’s greedy gaze. Armoured ribs. Light grey scales. A ridge that ran from the hollow of his throat, down the bone of his sternum, then lower still, bisecting his stomach before disappearing down below the waistband of his pants. No nipples. No navel, either. Just muscles that hinted at a solid sort of strength, and a distinct softness at the waist that spoke of occasional excess. Of hedonism. Of pleasures found in more than just the bedroom, and the subsequent attempts to compensate for them. 

Jadzia bit her lip. 

She watched as Julian, seemingly mesmerised by what he had uncovered, traced the scales of Garak’s neck. Watched as Garak gasped and moaned, his eyes fixed upon the doctor, the look in them one of hunger and need. 

Jadzia had little doubt that whatever she asked them to do, they would obey without hesitation.

Anything.

_Everything._

She could ask Garak to fall to his knees, then and there, his hands tied behind his back, and fuck the doctor with his tongue. Ask Julian to kiss him until he came, practically untouched, with nothing more than the feel of Cardassian lips against his own for stimulus. Ask the pair of them to rut against the wall of the holosuite, forbidding nothing but words, too preoccupied with each other to notice the southward drift of her hands. All that and more. 

Yet, she said, “Did you know that the ridge that runs up the centre of a Cardassian’s chest is one of the most sensitive parts of the body? More than the neck. There’s a cluster of nerve endings just beneath the scales, right where they’re at their thinnest.” 

She watched Julian’s eyes widen. Garak’s chest heaved, the sharp inhale outlining the shape of his ribs beneath his scales. 

“Lick it,” she ordered. 

And, like she knew he would, Julian obeyed. He licked a long, wet stripe from the base of Garak’s sternum up to the point where the ridge flattened out into a spoon shape. The muscles of Garak’s stomach tensed in response. His head fell back, exposing the long column of his throat, the scales there glinting in the silvery light. 

“Again.”

Garak moaned. Loudly. 

“I know you can do better than that, Julian. Start lower.”

Julian shuddered in response. His fingers, splayed wide over the plains of Garak’s chest, began to smooth over the outline of his ribs. His tongue traced the line of Garak’s ventral ridge, leaving the scales damp and glistening. They darkened noticeably at Julian’s attentions, a hint of blue beginning to wash over the grey. 

“Do you hear that?” Jadzia said. “He’s panting.”

Garak’s needy gasps filled the room, each exhale punctuated by a small, almost helpless moan. It made Jadzia want to rise from her place in the shadows. Approach the pair. Drag her nails down the scales of Garak’s spine. Whisper filthy things into Julian’s ear as he kissed and licked and...

“Bite it,” she said. 

The sound Garak made in response was almost embarrassingly erotic. Half growl, half groan, it sent a white-hot shock of need racing across her skin. She took another sip from her glass, fingers tightening around the rim as she fought the desperate urge to touch herself. To slide her fingers beneath the waistband of her pants and press against the soaking wet fabric of her underwear. To slip her fingers underneath the elastic and chase away the hollow ache that had settled there. Fill the void. 

Not yet, she told herself. 

_Later._

She could look but not touch. Those were the rules of the game. And though she sat in shadow, unseen but not unheard, she found that the anticipation, the agony of the wait, was half the appeal. 

Julian, it seemed, did not agree. A hand, his left, was pressed between his legs, fingers tracing featherlight circles across the fabric of his uniform. Jadzia watched for a second, breathing shallow at the flash of the doctor’s teeth upon Garak’s scales, and the sight of him pleasuring himself in response.

She took a deep breath and said, “No touching yourself, Julian.”

The doctor whimpered in frustration.

“You wouldn’t want to get distracted, would you? Not in the middle of such a valuable lesson in Cardassian anatomy.”

Slowly, achingly slowly, Julian tore his fingers away from his pants. His hand wrapped around Garak’s waist, knuckles white, tips digging briefly into the soft flesh before relaxing. He rubbed across the scales there, each pass of his fingertips an echo of the movements he had used to pleasure himself a moment before. His mouth continued its assault on Garak’s chest. 

Garak moaned again, louder still, his breath coming in short, staccato bursts. 

A hum of appreciation rumbled from Jadzia’s chest before she could stop it. This was better than she had imagined. And, oh, she had imagined this. On several occasions.

They made such a pretty picture, Julian and Garak. Human and Cardassian. Federation and Union. A beautiful blend of skin and scale, both soaked in sweat and shining softly in the light. Sun and moon. Two halves of a whole, casting long shadows across the floor. 

“The spoon shape at the top of the ridge is particularly sensitive. I dated a Cardassian once, who told me that it felt like a phaser to the spine when I licked it.” Jadzia swirled the contents of her glass thoughtfully. “I want you to do that to Garak, Julian. I want you to use your tongue. Your teeth.” She paused, watching Julian’s fingers tighten upon Garak’s waist. “I want you to make it hurt.” Another pause. “He’ll like it. I promise.”

And he would. She was certain of it. He’d like the pain, the ache of bruised scales, the feel of sharp teeth right where it would hurt the most. The way Garak tensed at her words told her as much. As did the way the fabric of his pants had begun to darken with the evidence of his arousal, the wet stain spreading across the Deltan cotton. 

Her suspicions were confirmed a moment later; Julian’s teeth sunk into sensitive scale and Garak’s knees gave out from underneath him. He collapsed back onto the sofa, hands still trapped behind him, chest heaving, legs spread in wanton invitation. The doctor followed him down, sinking to his knees, hands clenched upon his thighs. 

“I told you he’d like it, Julian.”

She neglected to mention that she’d liked it too. That the sight had left her slick and aching. Made her fingers itch. 

“Just like he’ll enjoy all the other things I’m going to make you do to him,” she added after a moment. 

Garak growled. 

Jadzia grinned. 

“Sounds like Garak agrees,” she said. “Or would if I let him. Perhaps I should?” She took another sip from her glass. “Where would you like Julian to touch you?”

“Anywhere,” came the gasped reply. 

“You’ll have to be more specific, or I’ll make him take his hands away altogether.”

A whine. Whether from Julian or Garak, she couldn’t be sure. But it seemed that the threat was not deemed an empty one. 

“My… My hips.”

“A little more chaste than I was expecting,” she laughed. “Well, you heard him, Julian.”

Julian’s hands were trembling. She heard his breath hitch as he reached out to trace the ridges that decorated Garak’s hips. 

“Those pants are going to be ruined. I think we’d better unzip them. Save the fabric any more torture.”

Slowly, Julian complied with the command. The hiss of a zip filled the air, followed by the rustle of expensive material. A groan rumbled from Garak’s chest as Julian peeled back the fabric, exposing him to the night air. To Jadzia. Then, his hands moved lower. 

“Stop,” she said sharply. “I don’t want you to touch him. I just want you to look.”

Julian was panting, his eyes shut tightly as he fought for control. 

“Look at him,” Jadzia insisted. “Can you see how much he wants it, Julian? How much he wants you?”

His eyes flickered open.

A pause. 

“Answer me.”

“Yes,” Julian breathed in reply. 

His eyes were wide, focused entirely on Garak. His tongue, wet and pink, darted out to lick his lips, almost absently. 

“Now show me.”

Jadzia watched as Julian reached forward, thumb swiping gently over the split in Garak’s ventral ridge—the action making Garak shiver and moan—before drawing back, holding his hand out to her for her to inspect. For her to see the glistening slickness that coated the pad of his thumb. The evidence of Garak’s helpless arousal. 

It wasn’t exactly what Jadzia had expected; she had thought Julian would step back, allow her to see the wet opening of Garak’s sex for herself. See the way the ridges that surrounded it would begin to tighten with excitement, pulling apart, exposing himself further to her gaze. It was a little disappointing, in a way. And yet, she couldn’t deny that there was something deeply erotic about the action Julian had chosen instead.

“Clever,” she said, eyes fixed on Julian’s hand. 

A thought occurred. 

“Have you ever tasted a Cardassian before?” she said, biting thoughtfully at her lower lip.

Julian shook his head. 

Jadzia felt a brief flicker of surprise at the confession. Julian and Garak, she knew, were no strangers to one another’s beds. They’d been fucking for years, if the rumours were to be believed. And yet, this seemed like a glaring omission. A missed opportunity. 

Something that needed to be rectified. 

“Garak, would you care to explain the taste?”

The Cardassian opened his mouth to reply when another thought occurred. A better one. 

“Wait,” she said. “I think he needs to be reminded first. Julian?”

The twin gasps that punctuated her question were almost simultaneous. 

Jadzia watched as Julian leant forward, hand tightening upon Garak’s thigh, and pressed his thumb between Garak’s lips. His eyes fluttered briefly shut, no doubt overwhelmed by the feel of Garak’s tongue against this skin. 

Garak moaned. He spread his legs a little wider, hips jutting forward, exposing more of himself to the hot holosuite air. A bead of clear fluid began to run down the seam of his sex, soaking the fabric of his opened pants, turning the red material almost black.

There was an answering dampness at the crux of Julian’s thighs, Jadzia was pleased to note, his uniform stained dark with it. Flat black xenylon, and likely standard issue polycotton undergarments beneath it, both soaked at the seams.

Her own were, too. She could feel the slickness building at her core. Feel the way she pulsed, too, as she watched the obscene tableau before her; Garak’s nostrils flaring as he tasted himself upon the doctor’s skin, and the answering heave of Julian’s chest, the slightest rock of his hips, the subtle shifting of stance that she knew from experience would bring the seam of his pants just so against…

Jadzia bit back a moan of her own. 

“How do you taste?” she said, voice more than a little desperate. She took a deep, steadying breath, and continued, “Tell your dear doctor.”

“Sweet.”

“I was hoping for a better description than that, Garak. But I suppose Julian’s just going to have to find out for himself.”

Another moan. This time from Julian. 

It seemed that the idea had appeal.

And not just to the doctor. Garak’s eyes were wide, his mouth slack, perhaps in shock, his chest heaving as he began to pant heavily. Jadzia watched as he began to struggle against his bonds. Tug and pull at the black silk that held his wrists behind his back. The ridges that decorated his shoulders had become a vibrant blue. That fuck-me hue that drove the members of his species wild—and more than a few committed xenophiliacs, too. Jadzia had seen it before on Iloja—or rather, Tobin had (the man wasn’t _quite_ a monk)—and it had almost always been followed by a set of hands at the wrists and utterly filthy things whispered into the darkness as they careened recklessly towards oblivion.

It was a pity, really, that Garak wasn’t going to get the chance to do either of those things. He was an eloquent man—with elegant hands—and the accompaniying rough fuck on top of the coffee table would no doubt have been a delight to observe. 

Ah well. How did that Terran saying go?

Beggars can’t be choosers. 

She, however, could be, and her choice was torture. Plain, if not quite so simple. 

“I want you to lick the outer ridges,” she said.

Jadzia shuddered as she watched Julian slide his hands across the top of Garak’s thighs, his spit-slicked thumb glistening in the moonlight, leaning forward to press his tongue against the Cardassian’s wet slit. 

Garak writhed at the contact. Hands still bound behind his back, he sunk further into the cushions, spreading his legs wider to allow Julian better access. And afford Jazdia a better view of the way Julian’s tongue split the seam in two. 

Garak hadn’t forgotten Jadzia was watching. 

No. He stared intently into the shadows, directly at the space in which he knew Jadzia sat, eyes bright with heat and want and just the slightest touch of madness. 

It made her feel hot. Restless. Made her ache with need, the hollowness between her thighs begging to be filled. She pressed the heel of her hand between her legs, gasping at the relief the action brought. 

No. Wait. 

She took a deep, shuddering breath and withdrew her hand, resting it lightly upon the arm of the chair. This wasn’t part of the plan, this role reversal. She wasn’t supposed to touch herself, and Garak wasn’t supposed to watch. 

Oh, she had no doubt that he had _seen_. Cardassian eyes were made for the darkness. The look upon his face told her as much; it was sly, possibly even a little knowing. 

Perhaps it was time to erase it?

“Use your fingers, Julian,” she said, watching Garak’s eyes flutter briefly shut as the doctor carried out her softly spoken orders. “Can you feel how silky it is? How wet?”

Because it would be. She knew that for certain. She could remember the feel of those inner scales, the soft skin further in, the way the little ridges inside pulled insistently at the fingers. Drawing them in. It has been several lifetimes since she had taken a Cardassian to her bed, but the memory of it, the feel, the taste, the scent that had coated her fingers—it was something she would never forget.

“Press your fingers deeper,” she urged. “Garak can take it.”

Would welcome it, even. 

“Use your mouth.” 

Garak cried out. 

Jadzia could hear Julian moaning too, the sound muffled by Garak’s sex. His hips had begun to rock. Hopelessly seeking friction, finding none, as he fucked Garak with his fingers and tongue. Made the Cardassian’s ridges turn a beautiful blue. Made him shift restlessly upon the sofa, breathing hard as he fought not to come. 

A battle it looked like Garak was rapidly losing. 

“He’s going to come, Julian. You’re going to make him.”

It wouldn’t take long. Not with the teasing rhythm Julian had set, alternating between slow, agonising licks and the press of a single finger—then two, three—deep into Garak’s dripping slit. Jadzia could already see the way the Cardassian’s ventral ridge had already begun to split further, revealing the very tip of something deep blue and spiked.

Garak was holding back. 

Or trying to. 

Julian’s free hand began to trace the crease of Garak’s thigh, nails scraping lightly over the sensitive scales. The fingers of his other twisted before he drew them out, tongue replacing them as they trailed wetly upwards. Slowly, they moved to the top of the split in Garak’s ventral ridge, lightly circling the spiky protrusion, the spines bending softly beneath his fingers as he coaxed the full length of it out into the open. 

Garak moaned. 

As did Jadzia. 

Her hand was back between her thighs, seemingly of its own accord, touching, teasing the outline of her sex though the sodden fabric of her fatigues. Each pass of her fingers along the seam of her pants sent sparks skittering across her skin. 

“Make him come, Julian,” she said, unable to disguise the hunger in her voice. “I want to see it.” 

She wanted to see Garak come. See him bound and trembling as Julian teased orgasm after orgasm from him with his fingers and tongue. See him helpless to stop it. Completely at her mercy. 

“Do it,” she hissed. 

Julian wrapped his hand around spikey protrusion, the length of it barely bigger than his fist, and bit down upon the swollen ridge of Garak’s sex. Hard. 

Garak came with a roar. 

Hot fluid painted Julian’s face, his hair. 

Jadzia watched as Julian’s hand clawed into Garak’s leg. The way his back stiffened. The way he shook, gasping and moaning into the hot depths of Garak’s sex as the waves of his own orgasm washed over him. 

And then she was coming too. 

It hit her like a phaser blast, the sudden release of tension making her whole body shake, her mind almost short-circuiting. The tumbler slipped from her fingers and dropped to the floor with a clatter, spilling the last of her drink across the carpet. But she didn’t care. She was floating on a wave of pleasure. 

No. Not floating. Drowning. Gasping for air as the world faded around her. 

It took Jadzia a moment or two to regain her wits. Her body felt like it was made of jelly. Aching, but sated. A grin rose involuntarily to her face, the rush of hormones that coursed through her system making her feel lightheaded. 

She cast a lazy glance out across the room. Towards the pair who lay spent and panting upon the sofa. 

“So,” she said after a moment. “Want to do that again?”  
  



End file.
